Touching the Clouds: A Novel (Alaskan Skies Book #1)

Kate made a wide turn, setting up for takeoff. With the engine roaring, she hollered, “Where to now?” “Kalgin Island.”

She felt the plane lug down and drag. She throttled up, but the craft pulled hard to the right. Oh brother, I’m stuck. Knowing that the tail might come up and stand the plane on the prop if she used too much power, Kate shut down.

Mike asked, “You got a shovel?”

“Yeah. In back.”

He moved to the rear of the plane and found the shovel. “Give me a few minutes.” He disappeared out the door.

Kate followed and found him digging around the right wheel. The beach was sodden.

“It’s pretty soupy.”

Embarrassed, Kate simply said, “I’ll get something for support.” She combed the beach for small pieces of driftwood while her mind berated her carelessness. She pressed the wood into the soggy ground in front of the tire.

“That ought to do it.” Mike stood and brushed sand from his hands. “Let’s set her free. You give her power and I’ll push.”

Kate wiped her hands on her pants, climbed inside, and dropped into the pilot’s seat. Mike cranked the plane, and when the engine lit off, he moved to the wing strut. While he pushed, Kate powered up, and finally the plane rolled forward. Mike scrambled in and took the seat beside Kate. “All set.”

Humiliation heating her insides, Kate headed the plane down the beach and into the air. “I should have been watching for that.”

“It happens. Just be thankful it wasn’t something worse. You could have lost your plane.” Mike’s smile disappeared. “Pilots lose more than planes all the time. In fact, they die pretty regularly.”

Kate glanced at him. His expression was grim.

“All kinds of things can bring a man down.” He snugged on his helmet. “That friend I told you about, the one who taught me how to fly—he took a run to Nome a couple years back and disappeared. Never was found.”

He fixed his eyes on Kate. “I understand your love of flying. Believe me, I understand. But don’t get careless, not for a minute. I’d hate to lose a good pilot. Especially one I like.”

Feeling a flush of pleasure, Kate turned her eyes to the sky.

She flew to Kalgin Island and then on to Tyonek, a native village on the inlet. Mike continued with his instructions. He also told her what kind of conditions she could expect once winter set in. He painted a grim picture, but Kate figured she’d face that trouble when it arrived. Better to keep her mind on the job.

Late in the day, they headed up the Susitna River. Kate landed on a sandbar lying in the center of the waterway. She had a drop at Bear Creek, a tributary that flowed into the Susitna.

A boat headed toward them. A man rowed and a native woman sat on the back bench with a youngster beside her. Two older boys knelt in the bow. When they reached the bar, the boys leaped out and pulled the boat onto the shore. The man unfolded his long-limbed frame and stood. “Hey, Mike,” he called, a broad smile plastered on his angular face.

“Patrick. Good to see you.”

Patrick helped the woman out of the boat, then headed toward them. “It’s a fine day,” he said, squinting into the sun.

“It is at that.” Mike nodded toward Kate. “Like you to meet your new mail carrier—Kate Evans. Kate this is Patrick and Sassa Warren and their boys.”

Curiosity on their faces, the children lined up beside their parents. Mike placed a hand on the smallest boy’s head. “This is Douglas.” He moved to the next child. “Ethan. And the tall one here is Robert.”

“Hello,” Kate said. “Nice to meet you.”

The boys stared. Douglas asked, “Are you a girl?”

“I am.”

Patrick put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse his bad manners.”

“That’s all right. He’s probably never seen a woman wearing this kind of getup.” Kate knelt in front of Douglas. “I’m dressed like this because of my job. It’d be hard to pack mail in and out of a plane wearing a dress.”

His cheeks flushed, but he nodded understanding.

Sassa stepped forward and smiled. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you.” Kate straightened and looked about. “It’s beautiful here.”

“We like it,” Patrick said. “We have a homestead just up the crick.”

While the boys bounded off toward the far end of the island, Mike reached into the back of the plane and came out with two envelopes and a package.

Sassa reached for the parcel. “It’s about time.” She held it out in front of her. “Books from the Sears catalog. The boys need them for their studies.”

“I’ll bet they’ll be thrilled about that,” Mike quipped as he took another box out of the bag. “This is for Klaus.” He looked up the creek. “Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“Rheumatism’s getting him down. I’ll see that he gets it,” Patrick said.

Mike handed the box to Patrick. “I’ve got a couple of letters for Paul too.” He turned his gaze to a boat moving toward the bar. “Looks like he’s coming out.”

Kate watched a dory move through the calm waters of the creek and into the river. There was something familiar about the man in the boat. And then she realized he’d been in the store. He was the one who’d told her about the job at the airport—the one who lived on Bear Creek. She hadn’t put them together.

The boat grated on the rocks as it came ashore. Mike and Patrick hurried to haul the dory out of the water. Paul jumped into the shallows to help. “Figured I’d come out and say hello.” He glanced at Kate.

“Good to see you.” Mike gave him a friendly slap on the back.

“You have mail for me?”

“I do.” Mike held out two envelopes. “I was just about to have Patrick deliver them.”

Paul glanced at the letters and quickly stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

Sassa reached into the front of her apron, took out an envelope, and handed it to Mike. “For my sister.”

He gave it to Kate. “This goes to Homer.”

He turned back to Paul. “By the way, this is your new mail carrier, Kate Evans.”

Paul smiled. “Good to see you again.” His voice was deep and steady. “So, you got the job.”

“Thanks to you.”

“You know each other?” Mike asked.

“We met at the store. He told me about Sidney and the airfield.” Kate looked at the handsome man and wondered what lay behind his somber brown eyes.

“I’m glad it worked out for you,” he said.

“Me too.” Kate suddenly felt self-conscious and fumbled for something to say. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome.”

His gaze stirred something in Kate. She could feel a flush heat her cheeks. “We better be on our way.” She took a step backward toward the plane and nearly tripped.

Mike caught her arm. “Easy there.”

Blushing, Kate gave the small group a wave and headed for the plane.

Paul watched as the Bellanca lifted off and headed upriver. An unexpected sense of isolation enveloped him.

“That’s a pretty young lady,” Patrick said. “Wonder why she’s piloting?”

“Figure she likes to fly,” Sassa said. “And when did you start noticing the ladies?”

“Since I was about thirteen.” Patrick laughed. “She’s just the right age for you, Paul.”

“No. She’s not right for him,” Sassa said. “He needs someone more sensible, with her feet planted on the ground, not flying off to who knows where.”

Paul stifled a groan. He wasn’t up to Sassa’s shenanigans about him and Lily.

“You need a nice girl who’ll settle down and have babies.” Sassa smiled.

It took great effort, but Paul managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Lily would be just the girl for you. She’s young and strong—”

“Sassa, I’ve told you, I’m not looking for a wife. I’m happy just as I am.”

She folded her arms over her chest and fixed her dark brown eyes on him. “A man needs a woman.”

“I don’t need anyone.” Paul didn’t want to sound unkind so he added, “Lily’s a nice girl. And one day she’ll be some young man’s wife.”

“Why not yours?”

“She wouldn’t be interested in an old man like me.”

“You’re not old. Couldn’t be more than . . .” She studied him, then raised her eyebrows and said, “You’re young enough.”

“I’m thirty-two, way too old for Lily.”

“Of course you’re not.” A breeze blew dark hair into Sas-sa’s eyes, but she seemed not to notice. “You need a girl who can care for your needs.”

“Sassa,” Patrick said sharply.

“She’s a good cook and she’ll clean your house ’til it shines. She knows how to fish and hunt and keep a garden—”

Patrick put a finger to his wife’s lips. “Enough.”

Sassa pouted. “Paul, you think about it.” Her eyes held his for a moment, then she turned and called the boys who had found their way to the tip of the sandbar. “Time to go.” They tossed the last of their stones into the water and then charged toward the boat. Sassa climbed in. “Paul, would you like to have dinner with us? Lily’s cooking.”

Sassa’s persistence was beyond belief, but Paul managed a cheerful reply. “Thank you, but not tonight. I’m making a trip to Susitna Station first thing tomorrow.”

“Why you going to Susitna?” Patrick asked.

“Hope to trade turnips and potatoes for traps. I’m running an extra line this winter.”

“Been thinking of doing that myself. Seems the critters are putting on some heavy fur.”

“Hope that means extra fine pelts this year.” Paul headed for his boat. “Have a good day.”

He pushed the dory into the water and climbed in. Sitting on the middle bench, he set his oars in the water and rowed toward the dock below his cabin. His mind turned to the letters in his pocket.

Paul set the mail on a small table beside an arm chair. Although anxious for word from home, he brewed coffee, took off his boots, and pushed his feet into moccasins before settling into his chair with a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. He wanted to savor the touch from home.

Resting his feet on a wooden footstool, he crossed them at the ankle, then picked up an envelope and slid a finger under the seal. As he unfolded the letter, he immediately recognized his brother, Robert’s, tidy script. Memories rushed at him. They’d had such good times . . . once.

Robert sounded happy. All was well. The financial slide seemed to be improving. In fact, he had hopes of making a trip north the following summer and wondered if Paul would object to the company.

Paul let the idea roll through his mind. He missed Robert. Growing up, the two had been close. They’d hunted and fished together. Paul envisioned the summer salmon run and knew it would thrill Robert.

He considered what it would be like to have his brother and family here on his homestead. Pleasure sifted through him. The company of those he loved and the sound of children would be heartening. Then reality pressed down. Their presence would also bring the darkness. He wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

Returning to the letter, he read, “It would be even better if you came home. We miss you. The kids ask about you all the time. Four years has not erased Rebecca and John’s memories of their favorite uncle. They’re always asking, ‘When is Uncle Paul coming home?’”

Wonder what they look like. Paul envisioned the twins. When he’d left, they resembled their father and one another, but their personalities couldn’t be more different. Rebecca was all girl, and John was the type of kid who pushed the limits.

He and Robert used to joke about whether he’d live to grow up. Now Paul couldn’t imagine joking about such a tragic possibility.

He turned his eyes back to the letter.

“If you won’t move home, at least consider a visit. You can stay with me and Mary. We have plenty of room.”

Paul allowed himself the treat of considering the idea. The family had often gathered at Robert’s place, which provided spectacular views of the San Francisco Bay. The children played and the adults talked—about work and life—while feasting on the delicacies created by the Anderson women.

It had been the best of times. Paul shut off the thoughts. No good would come from dwelling on the past.

“We love you. Stay safe this winter in your wilderness refuge.” It was signed simply, Robert.

Carefully folding the letter, Paul slid it back into its envelope. With a deep sigh, he wondered if his brother was right. Maybe he should return. The thought of family drew him homeward.

This is home now. It’s a good place with good people. He set the letter aside and picked up the other one.

He opened the envelope from his friend and former colleague, Walter Henley. His letter was chatty and upbeat. He shared the latest news from San Francisco, the gossip about the elites, and updates from the hospital. And, thankfully, he made no plea for Paul’s return.

The following morning it was still dark when Paul loaded sacks of turnips and potatoes into his boat. When he shoved off, dim light promised a new day and revealed damp brush and fog suspended above the quiet waters of the creek. When the back of the boat cleared the shallows, Paul pulled the starter rope of his Johnson outboard, and when it kicked in, he steered toward the river.

Early morning was his favorite time of day. It felt almost mystical—the whisper of night lingering to join dawn mists. He could feel the dew on his face and breathed in the scent of ripe highbush cranberries. The grasses along the river were chest high and drooped with moisture. The hum of his engine was the only sound except for an occasional mournful call of a loon. The world slept.

He pressed his back against the inside of the stern and kept his hand lightly on the tiller. Unexpectedly thoughts of Kate bombarded him. He wished he could share this magical world with her. He was certain she’d love it. Shaking her from his thoughts, he turned his attention to the river.

At Susitna Station, Paul steered the dory toward a small dock. All was quiet in the isolated hamlet, except for a barking dog. Two men leaned against one of several log cabins that stood in a row at the edge of the river.

When his boat gently bumped the dock, Paul looped a rope over a post and tied it off. He’d made good time and hopefully would be home by midday.

At the end of the dock, he trudged up steps leading to a wooden sidewalk and headed for the general store. Moving past the two men he’d seen from the river, he nodded and kept walking.

Charlie Agnak sat in front of the mercantile, his chair leaning against the building and his feet propped on a fat stump. The native man smiled, his eyes becoming slits and his face crinkling into hundreds of lines that reminded Paul of a map.

He stood, his short frame barely reaching Paul’s shoulders. “Good to see you. Was beginning to wonder if you’d come before the snows.”

“How’s business?” Paul asked.

Charlie shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“I was hoping to do some trading.”

“What you got?”

“Potatoes and turnips.”

“People round here always want vegetables, especially when winter’s coming.” He hobbled inside the store on bowed legs.

Paul followed.

Charlie moved to a barrel stove. He opened the door, then picked up two chunks of wood from a bin and shoved them into the fire. “Cold today.”

Paul scanned the small store and spotted the legholds hanging on a far wall. He crossed the room to have a look. “I need a dozen new traps. What you want for them?”

“Well now, that depends.” He grinned and rubbed his chin. “How much you got to trade?”

“I’ve got about a hundred pounds of potatoes and I’d say fifty pounds of turnips.”

“You have more at home?”

“Yeah and some carrots too.”

Charlie joined Paul. “These are nice traps, the best—lightweight, and they got a good, strong grip.”

“I can add fifty pounds of carrots,” Paul offered, knowing that Charlie never made a deal without dickering.

Charlie pushed his fingers through black hair lying flat against his forehead, then with a smile extended his hand. “You got a deal.” He took six traps down and limped to a register.

Paul grabbed six more and carried them to the front of the store. “I’ll take the traps out and bring in my half of the trade.”

“Good.” Charlie leaned over a ledger and wrote in it.

Paul hauled in the first of the potatoes. “Where do you want these?”

Charlie nodded toward the north wall. “Set ’em over there.” He stuck his pencil over his ear.

Paul deposited the sack against the wall, then returned to the boat for the rest of the vegetables.

“Doubt they’ll stay in the root cellar long,” Charlie said. “Already got people asking about spuds.” He sat in a chair near the stove. “How’re things on the crick?”

“No complaints. Had a run-in with some wolves, though.”

“Wolves?” Using his pencil, Charlie scratched his scalp.

“Yeah. A pack came after me. Managed to shoot three of them and the others took off.”

“They been back?”

“They came nosing around. But Patrick and I had traps set out. We got two of them.”

“Don’t hear much about wolves going after people.” Charlie stared at the sacks of vegetables, then looked at Paul. “Fellas around here are saying we’re in for a bad winter.”

“Yeah. First week of September and there’s already snow on Mount Susitna.”

Charlie nodded. “You figure on being back before Christmas?”

“By Thanksgiving. I’ll bring the carrots then.”

“Good.” Charlie folded his arms over his chest. “Have a sit and a cup of coffee.”

Paul knew all about Charlie’s coffee. It was black as mud and tasted worse. “I’d sure like to, but I’ve got to head home. There’s work waiting for me.” He hefted the remaining traps and walked to the door. “See you in a few weeks.”

“Watch out for those wolves.” Charlie propped his feet on the wood box next to the stove, looking like he was settling in for the day. “Say hello to Patrick and Klaus for me. Haven’t seen neither of them in a while.”

“Patrick’ll be by, but I don’t know about Klaus. His rheumatism’s bothering him. I’ll give him a hello from you, though.” Paul opened the door and headed for his boat. He chucked the traps into the hull and then shoved off, heading back the way he’d come.

Darkness settled over the cabin as Paul set to work repairing a fur hat. Wood snapped and popped in the stove, and the aroma of burning spruce and alder pervaded the room. A lantern flickered, providing just enough light for him to see.

He bent over the hat, pushing a large needle with heavy twine into a torn ear flap. He pulled it through the other side and tugged it snug. If his ear was exposed to the cold, he could lose it to frostbite.

He squinted, trying to keep the stitches tight and even. His coarse hands caught on the fur. He stopped and set the cap in his lap. Turning his palms up, he studied them. They were chapped and calloused. A flash of memory reminded him of the work they’d once done and how they’d looked.

A lot has changed, he thought, feeling the familiar squeeze of pain in his chest. Stay busy. Don’t think. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t keep the memories at bay and couldn’t stop wishing things had stayed as they were.